The Lives We Have Lived
by Time Sequence
Summary: 'Their hands were clasped together as the shots rang out. Enjolras smiled.' A series of reincarnation drabbles for the cynic and the believer.


**The Lives We Have Lived**

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 _An 18th birthday gift for Abbie._

I apologise for any historical inaccuracies.

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i.

The barricades had fallen, the people of Paris unmoved by their plight. Enjolras stood alone, red flag clasped tightly in hand, facing down the guns.

From elsewhere in the _Musain_ there was a clatter. Grantaire stumbled in, eyes trained on Enjolras.

 _Permets-tu?_

Their hands were clasped together as the shots rang out. Enjolras smiled.

ii.

It changed. The price of freedom was somehow higher. The year: 1940, meant the fall of the French army and the annexation of France by Nazi Germany. Paris was labelled _occupé_ – occupied – and Grantaire could feel the loathing that stirred in Enjolras' veins.

 _Resistance_ in one life, almost synonymous with _revolution_ in another.

It ended with bullets this time, too – fired by Gestapo instead of National Guard.

iii.

R didn't know where Enjolras was taking her. The radio whispered gently and the night stretched out around them as Enjolras drove. They stopped on a mountainside viewpoint and Enjolras stepped out of the car, her blonde hair catching the wind.

R followed suit, pulling her coat around her against the chill air. She perched on the bonnet next to Enjolras and gazed out. Below them, the town glittered, shimmering lights as bright as stars.

Enjolras sighed and R glanced at her, reaching out to take her hand. "I like to come here to think. Sometimes, when things are stressful … it's nice to sit here and just observe. Watch people living and breathing from afar. Is that strange?"

R kissed her.

iv.

In this universe, there was a tattoo which everyone was born with; the first words your soulmate would say to you, written by them across your body.

Grantaire's was written in a spidery script along his forearm. _I don't want a drunk_.

While for most people, the tattoo was a source of anticipation, waiting for the day when those words would be said, for Grantaire it was a punch in the stomach. _I don't want a drunk_. The one person in the world that he was made for wouldn't want him, would turn him away.

One day, Grantaire was in a bar. A blonde man sat across from him and he was beautiful so he thought _why not_ and just asked. "Can I get you something?"

The blonde looked at him and his cheeks coloured. "I don't want a drink."

Grantaire paused before a smile cracked his face and a laugh leaped from his chest. The blonde looked confused. "You have awful handwriting."

v.

Jeanne d'Arc. Freedom, yet again, only this time from the English. They were cut down by English swords.

vi.

This time was different. The barricades had fallen, the people of Paris unmoved by their plight. Enjolras was in hospital, bandages and sheets coloured red with the freedom his friends' deaths had not won.

Grantaire had died early in the skirmish. Enjolras had held his body tightly in his arms and he had told him about the republic he wished to create when morning came as Grantaire's eyes glazed over.

"I believe in you."

Nothing had changed.

vii.

They had both been at that awful night club and it hadn't seemed like too bad an idea to escape for a few hours. Enjolras left early in the morning and by the end of the week he was nothing more than a distant memory.

viii.

Life drawing class was always hit and miss. Today, it was very much a hit. The blonde sat in a reclining position, completely exposed and, by god, was R glad her easel was between them. That way he couldn't see the blush creeping up her neck and onto her cheeks.

ix.

There was a French man talking to him. A very pretty French man. Grantaire had no clue what the hell he was saying, he just knew that he liked the way he pronounced the 'aire' in his name.

How did he know his name?

Right, it was on his name tag. He was _working_. Supposedly.

The guy seemed very put out when he realised he couldn't speak French. Well, this _was_ America. His name was very misleading for random French customers, he supposed.

They managed the Starbucks order with hand gestures and a ridiculous amount of pointing.

x.

 _Dear Mr Enjolras,_

 _It has come to my attention that your daughter has been calling another pupil "monarchist scum" and proceeding to use the art and craft supplies to pain her face red – "the colour of the blood of angry men". We would like to arrange an appointment with you in order to discuss this behaviour as it is unacceptable._

 _Yours faithfully,_

 _Mrs Matthews_

 _Year 1 Teacher_

 _Dear Mr Grantaire,_

 _It has come to my attention that your son has taken to calling another pupil "socialist twerp" and begun stealing the bottles from the wet play area. We would like to arrange an appointment with you in order to discuss this behaviour as it is unacceptable._

 _Yours faithfully,_

 _Mrs Matthews_

 _Year 1 Teacher_

 _Dear Mr Enjolras and Mr Grantaire,_

 _It has come to our attention that your children have been rallying students and building "barricades" with left over chairs and benches to "rebel against homework". It should be noted that homework is a necessary part of the curriculum and that barricading corridors is against school rules. We would like to arrange an appointment with you in order to discuss this behaviour as it is unacceptable._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Mr Davies_

 _Year 4 Teacher_

xi.

It was different again. The barricades had fallen, the people of Paris unmoved by their plight. Enjolras stood alone, red flag clasped tightly in hand, facing down the guns. He fell, ten bullets passing through him.

Grantaire awoke after the fighting with a splitting headache and a hangover that, by his reckoning, would last for a week.

Then he saw the damage.

There was a clatter as he stumbled upstairs, eyes training on Enjolras. _Enjolras._

He was pinned to the wall, as if the bullets had nailed him there. His blonde head was lolled forward, the red flag at his feet.

Grantaire's knees gave way.

xii.

"Drive! Drive!"

The sudden presence of the blonde student, who moments before had been high-tailing away from a group of policemen, startled Grantaire so much he stepped on the gas pedal a little too hard.

" _Who the hell are you?_ "

Oh god, now he was an accomplice.

The blonde's chest was heaving and his face was red from running.

"Oh my god, they're going to book me. They have my number plate now. _Get out of my car!_ "

"Take the second left and I'll do exactly that."

Grantaire turned into the side road and slammed on the breaks. The guy jumped out, grabbing Grantaire's water bottle (he made a strangled complaint) and started up running.

R placed his head against the steering wheel and tried to calm his breathing as he waited for the police.

Bonus.

There was a drunk.

 _The drunk was peeing on his car._

 **WHILE HE WAS IN IT** _ **.**_

/Door slams/

/Shouting/

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Also posted on AO3


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